


heaven in hiding.

by orphan_account



Category: MLAndersen0, Marble Hornets
Genre: Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Institutions, Pre-Canon, Shared Hallucinations, Wow I just really want these two to be okay, unreality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-11
Updated: 2017-08-11
Packaged: 2018-12-13 22:11:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11769423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Whatever the case may be, he lets it happen, clings to it, even. It’s probably pathetic how much the phraseI have a frienddrifting across his mind makes him giddy, but that doesn’t matter. He’s been here so long that he doesn’t remember what building friendships on the outside is like, but he’s sure it can’t be that much different from how this feels.[In which I fuck with canon timelines and canon locations to explore the possibility of Tim and Michael meeting by chance during their youth inpatient days, because I want so badly for them both to have someone who understands them. Written for the fan_flashwork challenge prompt "best."]





	heaven in hiding.

**Author's Note:**

> To address the elephant in the room, this piece is completely self-indulgent. It also draws a lot on my own experiences being inpatient before. (For example, the staff member named Kayleigh is based on a real person, and the layout of the hospital is based on a real place.)
> 
> This is pre-Masky, as it's not made certain _exactly_ when Tim's Masky persona is formed, but it's stated that Michael has been "becoming" Patrick since before he's sent away for treatment. 
> 
> Obviously this never could have happened due to canon timelines and the two series taking place states away from each other, but it's a "what-if" scenario okay, I took liberties.

Michael always sits in the far corner during group, not just because he wants to blend into the scenery and avoid the group leader speaking to him directly, but because the object of his nightmares (both sleeping and waking) sometimes manages to take shape at some point during the therapy session, manifesting itself from within the tendrils of the shadows as they intersect and overlap to take on a humanoid shape; it's always poised so that he can tell it's looking at him directly, despite the fact that the thing has no discernible eyes. 

He can feel it long before he can ever see it, and his instinct is always to draw in on himself, folding his knees up and drawing them close to his chest as if the smaller he makes himself, the less chance it has of identifying him. 

This strategy never works; its invisible eyes bore through him and he clasps his hands together around his knees so tightly his knuckles turn white, trying to convince himself that if he stays quiet and still, like a statue, that it will go away. The doctors assure him that all the pills will make him stop seeing this terrifying creature, and he will be normal again if he just cooperates. His parents won't look at him with that gut-wrenching mixture of worry and disappointment, and things will be alright with Shaun again too. He repeats that in his head like a mantra as he stares down at his socks (they aren't allowed to wear shoes) and wills himself to believe that the abomination taunting him from out of the corner of his eye is a fabrication of his mind and nothing more. 

“And what about you, Michael?” His gaze shoots upwards as the group leader addresses him by name; today, it's a woman named Kayleigh who can't be any older than thirty, with bleached blonde hair and only the slightest hint of some Eastern European accent that he can't place. She's one of the nicer ones, her warm and encouraging smile most certainly genuine, but that doesn't offer much comfort; he still has less than no desire to speak up. 

_I don't know,_ is what Michael so badly wants to say, because it's the truth - he's long since lost track of the topic of conversation (something about cognitive distortions…?). But what he blurts out, what's on the tip of his tongue, is, “it's not real.”

Kayleigh, with enough patience for about five average human beings, just asks, “what's not real, Michael?” Her warm demeanor doesn't falter for a second, and her soft voice is lined with empathy. 

Now his throat is dry, and it's only after he answers that he realizes his grave error that is speaking without thinking. “The thing in the corner.” 

Michael can feel the heavy weight of the stares his peers are directing at him, but he wills himself to ignore it because people saying slightly alarming things during groups isn't an extraordinary occurrence in the least, and they'll forget it within the hour. Nevertheless, his skin crawls enough to give him a rather nasty chill, and he can almost feel the thing telepathically sending him a silent message from across the room: _they all think you're crazy, and no one will ever believe you. You're alone against something that wields a power far beyond your comprehension._

Kayleigh’s response only just barely cuts through the thing’s silent yet deafening proclamation. “The fact that you can recognize that really shows your progress.” She's still smiling, and the statement bears no hint of condescension. Michael says nothing, only looks at the floor, and after a fraction of a second’s pause, she moves on to someone else. 

After the group discussion reaches a satisfactory conclusion, she hands out clipboards with blank sheets of paper and black pens, encouraging everyone to draw whatever comes to mind. 

Michael wishes he had the willpower to force himself to draw something, _anything_ that's even the slightest bit innocuous, but his hand moves across the paper without even a hint of guidance from the conscious parts of his brain, sketching a rough but unmistakable likeness of the shadowy being in the corner, right down to the blank countenance and crisp, formal suit. 

He doesn't notice the boy seated closest to him, a good distance away but still within visible range of what he's drawing, staring intently at his hand as it darts wildly from left to right, working vigorously to capture a decent facsimile of the being that's tormented him for what feels like an eternity. 

The paper is completely covered in nonsense by the time they’re dismissed for their mid-afternoon meal; there’s not a hint of the translucent clean white it had started out as, instead now encased in a black exoskeleton of intersecting lines, visibly indenting into inwards grooves where Michael had pressed down with particular hostility. 

Looking down at it, his heart sinks with dread, that terrible thought that always surfaces at times like this is a deafening echo in his mind like he’s silently calling out from inside a canyon, berating himself for not being able to pull himself to safety.

_You can not get better; you are not strong enough._

He crumples the paper violently, and it’s loud enough for the sound of the action to fill the now-empty room, but it’s nowhere near loud enough to drown out the yelling in his head. Getting up to follow the rest of the group, he shoves the remains of his drawing into the trash can adjacent to the doorway and tries to ignore the vivid, saturated images flashing behind his eyes, images of Shaun, hurt and afraid, images that remind him that there is no hope, and he is at fault. 

The only consolation is that the tall man is nowhere to be seen now, vanquished by the effects of the pills he’d taken perhaps, or by the ferocity with which Michael had put the image to paper, transferring its vitality from a menacing hallucination to something both tangible and inanimate, harmless. He can only guess as to the reason, but it’s a relief either way. 

He so badly wants to believe that everything will be okay.

* * *

The evening drifts by in welcome calm; there are more groups, and they go outside in the courtyard for about an hour just before dinner time - outside days are always good days, because even in this slightly depressing courtyard (which far more resembles a concrete box than it does a “yard” of any sort), the fresh air always seems to cleanse him from the inside out and he feels slightly less like a caged animal than he does inside where he’s trapped within the confines of the walls. 

And, best of all, he does not see it at all during the course of the day; Michael is bothered by nothing save the usual dark shadows that linger just outside his peripheral vision, and even these are muted somewhat, dulled to an unthreatening grey by the medication in his system.

Come nightfall, by the time the nighttime meds are already making him drowsy (maybe he’ll get a decent amount of sleep tonight, nightmare free, but he knows better than to get his hopes up), Michael feels complacent, as content as he can be given the circumstances.

The work for the day is all finished, and there’s about an hour of free time before mandatory lights out; he’s opted to sit in one of the common areas, as being in his own room tends to give him anxiety (perhaps it’s the tiny window located near the top of the high ceilings making it uncomfortably dark even in the daytime, or maybe it’s the long shadows cast by particularly tall furniture). The room is particularly quiet, silent even, as he’s its only occupant - everyone else tends to congregate in the other common room, the one with the television. 

Michael likes the quiet, though, although he’s never truly alone - closed doors aren’t permitted. Leaning back in the somewhat comfortable padded chair, he draws his knees close to his chest, wrapping his arms around them and clasping his hands together. Gazing upwards, trying to connect invisible patterns in cracks in the ceiling, he does his best to clear his mind, to think about absolutely nothing. Trying to catch hold of that peaceful blankness is a lot like trying to hold onto water in cupped hands; the thoughts always find a way to seep through. 

He’s so lost in thought (or, attempted lack thereof), that Michael doesn’t even notice someone else sitting down beside him, breaking the veil of solitude. 

“Um… hey,” the boy says uncertainly, and Michael jumps, both physically surprised and taken aback because the very concept of somebody choosing to speak to him outside of a group setting is so foreign to him. It’s not that he’s outright antagonizing to any of the other kids, it’s just that he doesn’t want to form connections. Partly because of the fact that he doesn’t trust anyone, but mostly because of the fact that he doesn’t trust himself. 

Making eye contact, he does _recognize_ the boy - dark hair, looks older than Michael is, and just as withdrawn - but a name doesn’t come to him. To be fair, Michael doesn’t pay much attention to his peers’ social interactions (if any attention at all), but he can’t remember ever seeing this boy going out of his way to talk to anybody else either. “Hi...” he answers awkwardly, looking at the floor, now following the geometric patterns in the tile with his eyes. 

He swears he can feel the intensity of this guy’s gaze on him even without chancing a look back upwards, and Michael finds himself wishing (for once) that one of the night nurses will call for everybody to return to their rooms already. 

They sit in heavy silence for what seems like forever, and then he speaks again. “I’m sorry, I… It’s none of my business but, that thing you were drawing in group this morning… What is it?”

Michael freezes, his entire body tensing immediately; he’s gripping his left wrist so tightly that the knuckles on his right hand have gone an ashen white, and it takes him a terrifyingly long time to remember how breathing works. Even after he regains the ability to breathe, gratefully drinking in lungfuls of air, he can’t offer any answer even if he _knew_ what to say; his mouth is so dry that he’s sure any words he’d try and form would just wither and die instantly. 

Another extended, oppressive silence, wherein Michael somehow manages to wrench his gaze from the floor at his feet and look at his conversation partner (well, if you could even _call_ this a conversation that is) in the eye again, figuring it’s the least he can do if he can’t manage even a dismissive verbal response. There’s a creeping, prickling sensation forming at the back of his neck, and he’s panicking, panicking because all of his instincts are screaming that he is unsafe. But why…? He’s spoken about the being that he sees before, when prompted to during group therapy, albeit not in any sort of detail. The fact that he sees things that aren’t there is not any sort of secret, not in here, because withholding information will do nothing but hinder his recovery. 

But this… 

He can see now that the boy beside him looks just as anxious as _he_ feels, and although Michael isn’t exactly an expert at reading people, he absolutely does not look like he poses a threat. 

He takes a deep breath. 

“I-it’s a hallucination I have,” he admits, voice wavering. It’s not a lie, or at least not a lie that isn’t by omission. “It’s just a um… A being that doesn’t exist but it _looks_ real, it _feels_ real so I can’t… I can’t tell the difference. I don’t know why you even care, honestly, it’s—“ 

“—a tall figure, looks like a guy in a suit, no face?” Michael almost chokes on air when the words reach his ears. He’d been _trying_ to say _it’s not a big deal_ but maybe he’d spoken too soon. 

_He saw your drawing and he’s trying to mess with you, that’s all. Don’t let these poisonous thoughts worm their way into your head._ But it hadn’t sounded like any sort of joke, cruel or otherwise; the only emotion in the other boy’s voice had been unmistakable raw fear, the kind that’s impossible to fake. Well, technically it would be possible, but nobody who’s that good of an actor would get themselves stuck in a place like this. 

“Yes,” Michael confirms with a nod, his voice barely more than a whisper. “But I’m trying to move _past_ it; I want it gone for good, so why are you asking me about it when you don’t even really _know_ me…” He’s audibly upset now, although visibly hasn’t moved an inch, his words lined not with anger but with desperation. 

“Because I recognize it.” It’s the last answer that Michael could possibly want, and yet he feels a pang of yearning buried beneath all of the dread. The old longing for someone to understand him, to not be so _alone_ that he’s learned to repress is breaching the surface again, and he suddenly feels powerfully nauseous. 

As he’s struggling to grasp what he’s feeling, the other boy continues speaking. “When I saw your drawing, I… I don’t know, I thought I’d seen it before, but in a dream or something. I couldn’t place it, but then it hit me suddenly, like I’d just been run over by a bus filled with my own memories. I’ve _seen_ that thing; it’s been following me since I was a little kid, and I only forgot about it because the medication I take _makes_ me forget it. I swear to god, I had forgotten its entire existence until I saw you drawing it.”

If Michael’s stomach had dropped down to his shoes before, it’s sunk through the floor now, which would explain why he suddenly feels so hollow. Because the meds have caused _him to forget it too_ and this has to be some kind of sick joke because _he was getting better-_ _Maybe I’m just hallucinating this entire experience,_ he thinks bitterly, and he’s honestly not sure which would be the lesser of the two evils. “I…” He starts, but he can’t force any words out after that; he has no idea what to say and he’s certain that if he opens his mouth he’s just going to vomit. “Why…” He chokes out. “Why did you have to…” He can’t finish the thought; it isn’t this guy’s fault, after all, not in the least, but that doesn’t make it any less unfair. 

His companion is starting to look a little sick as well; his face has turned unnaturally pale. “I’m sorry,” he offers, sounding both helpless and genuine. He looks at Michael with an expression that, beneath the layer of terror, is soft, sympathetic, and actually just a little bit comforting. “I saw it, and the image was like… Implanted in my head for the rest of the day; it was all I could think about so I had to ask you about it, I… I had to know.” A pause, and then he speaks again, this time with a tone that’s only slightly less grave. “Trust me, I was hoping it was just some weird coincidence and you were just a really crappy artist who had been attempting to draw a giraffe or something.” 

For whatever reason, even though he’s in the midst of a particularly severe reality crisis, something about the ridiculousness of those words prompts him to smile just slightly, the rest of him still feeling drained of all emotion, completely detached. “What does this… Mean?” He finally asks, although he’s almost positive he has no desire to hear the answer. “What do we do?” 

The question hangs in the air for an agonizing moment, making the air between them heavy and claustrophobic. _There_ is _no answer,_ Michael realizes. 

As if reading his mind, the dark-haired boy mutters weakly, “I don’t know.” Perhaps thinking better of such a nondescript answer, he then adds, “maybe it _is _just some sort of freaky coincidence. It’s not that rare, right? For two people to see the same hallucination? If the medication is working, maybe we’ll just keep improving. Maybe it’s nothing.”__

He sounds tentatively convinced by his own words at best, but Michael finds them at least the slightest bit placating, which is better than nothing. He’s not wrong, after all – it’s not unheard of. Strange, but not unheard of. “Maybe it’s nothing,” he echoes, still sounding (and feeling) like he’s far away from his own body. 

Trying to will himself to relax, repeating the words that have only just left his lips in his head like a mantra, Michael speaks again, blurting out the question without even stopping to consider what he’s saying. “If we’re… You know, near each other or whatever, and you see it, could you maybe… Tell me?” Regretting the words almost immediately, he hastily adds, “n-never mind, that’s stupid isn’t it.” 

His companion shakes his head, and something about his voice, or maybe it’s in how he presents himself, is just _warm_ somehow and maybe it’s just Michael’s need for understanding and intimacy, but he feels drawn toward him despite not letting himself hope for any legitimate connections. 

“Nah, it’s not stupid; I’m glad you asked actually, so I didn’t have to.” Immediate relief – Michael finds himself able to breathe more comfortably than he has been for the duration of this discussion. He’s calming down; perhaps they both are, and there’s a brief silence. 

“Now what…?” He finally asks, and it’s a genuine inquiry, if a slightly awkward one – he’s still not that proficient in social interaction, whether they’ve been talking for a good twenty minutes already or not.

Michael gets a shrug in response, and then a surprisingly casual, “there’s still like a half hour until we have to be back in our rooms; want to play cards?”

And so they do, and despite how upsetting and frightening their introductory conversation had been? The two of them seem to mesh pretty well, all things considered.

Glancing up at the clock, Michael gathers up the cards on the table before him, arranging them neatly in a stack. “We’ve got like five minutes; I guess we’d better clean up.” After a second, he adds, “and I’m not just saying that because I’m losing horribly, although that might contribute to the decision just a little.” 

Laughing under his breath, the boy across from him starts to collect his portion of the cards too, and they clean up in silence, at least until he starts to ask, “so wait, what’s your—“ 

Not even waiting for him to finish, Michael answers on autopilot, already more than accustomed to the whole so-what-are-you-in-for-kid introductory mental hospital speech. “Bipolar.” 

With a tone that’s equal parts sarcastic and lighthearted, the reply he gets is, “nice to meet you, Bipolar; I’m Schizophrenia.” 

For the second time that night Michael smiles, even laughing just a bit this time around, although the feeling of laughter seems alien to him. “Michael, sorry. Force of habit.” When he stops to think about it, he realizes he’d completely forgotten that they hadn’t known each other’s names. 

“Nice to meet you Michael, I’m Tim.” Tim’s voice is more serious this time around, and again, genuine (or a believable facsimile thereof, but Michael is convinced). 

He’s just sliding the worn cards into their beat-up cardboard box when one of the nurses calls out from just outside the door, right on cue. Tossing the box on the shelf with the rest of the hospital’s sad collection of games, Michael gets to his feet.

“Goodnight, Tim.”

* * *

The days drift by and things are ultimately uneventful; in this case, no news is probably good news, so Michael figures he has no real right to complain.

First thing in the morning, without fail, as all of the patients form a line at the nurses’ station to collect their first dose of medication, his eyes are locked on the back wall, behind all of the staff members, where there’s a whiteboard with the date and day of the week written in colorful bubble letters; it’s impossible to miss and he stares at it, _into_ it every day, etching the numbers into his memory. 

_Today is the sixteenth; yesterday was the fifteenth. I haven’t lost any time._

It’s been months since he’s blacked out, completely departed his own body only to wake later, restrained and alone and afraid, with no memory of the time that’s past or the violent things he’s apparently tried to do. 

His doctor says the meds are stopping this, subduing both these episodes and the visions of the faceless man, and Michael is starting to believe him, but he refuses to lull himself into a false sense of security. 

Other than the occasional darting of elongated shadows teasing the very edge of his vision, he has not seen a full manifestation of the thing since that day he and Tim had first spoken of it. Michael does not know for sure whether Tim sees it at all, but the two of them haven’t spoken about it in any depth since that first night, instead opting for safer subjects to talk about, both of them simultaneously attempting to have faith in their recoveries, and discussing lighter topics (at least, as light as is manageable, all things considered). 

Once or twice, Michael has seen Tim tense up; it’s subtle enough that nobody else could likely pick up on the change, but they always choose to sit close to each other during groups and meal times, so Michael notices. 

But when he makes eye contact, giving his friend that worried, searching look that Tim is somehow always able to read, he’s met with only a shake of the head in response, and the relief is immediate. 

He has no doubt in Tim’s truthfulness, but although he’ll never ask he does wonder what is the actual cause of these particular moments, if not a sighting of the tall man. Honestly, though, Michael himself has inner demons that reach beyond just that accursed entity, and he assumes that must be the case for Tim, too. 

Whether or not their first interaction had been questionable, the pair of them do become very close, very quickly. Of course, Michael is aware that tight-knit bonds formed inside these walls are often a fabrication, brought on by living in a close proximity and being closed off from the outside world. He knows this, and yet this feels so much _different_. There can be exceptions, right…? 

Whatever the case, he lets it happen, clings to it, even. It’s probably pathetic how much the phrase _I have a friend_ drifting across his mind makes him giddy, but that doesn’t matter. He’s been here so long that he doesn’t remember what building friendships on the outside is like, but he’s sure it can’t be that different from how this feels. 

Another late evening finds them both in Tim’s room (such things are allowed since the door remains open at all times, provided they’re both within view of the outside hallway). Whoever Tim’s roommate is (Michael knows the guy by face, but not by name) is absent, so they have the room to themselves. 

Seated at the edge of his bed, Tim chews at his lip thoughtfully. “How long have you been in here, anyway? I don’t even think I remember you arriving.” 

Michael can barely remember arriving either, much less the traumatic events that happened beforehand. “I was eight, but I was downstairs in the children’s unit until I was twelve. Most of it is really blurry.” 

“Huh. And you’re what, fifteen now?” Tim asks, still looking thoughtful. 

“Fourteen,” Michael answers immediately, as he has the date completely memorized, and therefore his current age memorized as well, by proxy. “But my birthday’s in January so I’ll be fifteen soon.” 

Laughing quietly, Tim shrugs. “I’ve got you beat, I guess. I’ve been in and out of places like this since I was seven, and I’m already seventeen.” From across from him where he’s seated on a chair, Michael can see him smile, but with unmistakable bitterness behind it. 

He can’t even imagine ten years like this, despite the fact that he’s coming up on six years himself. “At least in and out means you spent some time out, right?” 

Tim shrugs. “I guess, but I don't know if it’s worth it. It kinda feels like faking somebody else’s life, and it never really lasts. …Not yet, at least. I guess I can’t complain, though; this is one of the nicer ones, in comparison. It’s only been a couple of months, but I can already tell.” 

Hearing hospital-related horror stories is the last thing Michael wants to hear, so he doesn’t even consider asking for elaboration. Instead, without thinking, he says, “I hope you stay here.” Immediately realizing the implications of his words, he rushes to clarify. “I mean, I hope you get out, and-and stay healthy, but… If you have to be stuck in a hospital somewhere, I hope it’s right here.” 

He’s afraid he hasn’t arranged the words correctly, constructed the sentence in a way that successfully transforms feeling into thought, but Michael is instantly reassured when Tim smiles. “I hope so, too.”

* * *

One Saturday, Michael meets Tim near the door to one of the empty group rooms, after returning from a meeting with his psychiatrist. 

“You’re in a good mood,” Tim points out, and Michael actually isn’t _aware_ of it until it’s brought to his attention, but yes, he supposes it isn’t completely outside the realm of possibility that he’s in a decent mood. 

His doctor had gone out of his way to point out how much Michael’s been improving, and how long it’s been since he’s had an “episode.” He hadn’t known just how badly he’d craved the validation and praise of his efforts until he’d heard them – after all, it wouldn’t have been the first time he genuinely believed that things are fine while bad stuff is happening that he has no memory of. He’s doing his best, he always is, but it’s often nowhere near enough.

But no, he’s _improving._ And man, is it tempting to start believing that recovery is an attainable goal. He won’t, not with such a big letdown at risk, but it’s tempting nonetheless. 

He and Tim are in the midst of a rather lighthearted conversation as they walk down the hall toward the rec room, and he doesn’t even take notice of the nurses’ station until the on-duty staff addresses him by name, trying to get his attention. “Michael Andersen…?” 

He stops reflexively, looking over his shoulder. “Yeah?” 

She rifles through a stack of papers on the desk, searching for something. “Your mother called earlier, when you were with the doctor. She left a message that the previous nurse dictated.” After a few more seconds of looking, she digs out a piece of paper, handing it to him.

> Hello, Michael. Your father and I had to go out of state to deal with family issues, and we won’t get back until sometime next week. We can’t make it to see you today for that reason, but Shaun, who is staying with a friend said he would still take the bus to visit you tonight.

Somehow, he’d forgotten all about visiting hours, despite having committed the fact that it’s Saturday to memory this morning just as he always did. “Thanks,” he mumbles to the nurse, continuing on the route to his room on autopilot and absently tossing the sheet of paper into the garbage can when he gets there.

He’s already collapsed on his bed when he notices Tim, who he’d completely forgotten was following him, standing there with a concerned expression. “Are you… Okay…?”

“Yeah,” Michael utters in reply, sounding rather unconvincing to his own ears. “I forgot it was a visitation day, and my brother’s coming to see me tonight.” Realizing that this in and of itself is not much of an explanation, he attempts to clarify. “The reason I got sent here is because I hurt my brother Shaun, but I don’t remember doing it.” It’s the truth, or at the very least a condensed version of such. 

Tim nods as though he understands, and he stands there uncomfortably until Michael motions for him to sit. “If he still keeps coming to see you, though, doesn’t that mean he forgives you?” 

“Maybe,” Michael answers, and in his head he addends that with _but it’s far from being that cut-and-dry, and even if he does forgive me it doesn’t mean I deserve it._ Out loud, he mumbles, “but maybe he’s just a good person and he feels he has to stay with me.” 

Tim’s response comes immediately, as if he didn’t have to think about it at all beforehand. “Well I’m not a good person, and I still want to stay with you.” 

Michael forgets about all the conflicting emotions engaged in a violent battle in his mind right then, and he just feels warm. Too warm, like the air in his room is suddenly far hotter than it should be, despite the fact that the entire hospital unit always seems to be quite a few degrees too cold. “Point taken,” is all he manages to say, smiling as he mouths the words. “You _are_ definitely a good person, though, so you’re wrong on that account.”

There’s a brief, comfortable silence, and then Michael speaks again. “What about your family? Do you have a lot of people coming to visit?” They haven’t talked about family at all, and he finds himself more curious than he should be. 

Tim winces, and Michael regrets the question almost immediately. “There isn’t anybody coming to see me tonight.” The words seem calculated, carefully picked, and there’s hidden meaning buried beneath them. _Not just tonight,_ Michael thinks, and suddenly his misgivings about Shaun seem so very inconsequential. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, because what else _can_ he say? 

“It’s fine,” Tim immediately answers, even though they both know it’s not fine. “I don’t mind waiting up here anyway.” 

With a forced smile Michael suggests, “you could come and meet my brother.” In truth, he’s not sure if it’d be allowed, but he feels he may as well offer. 

“Nah.” Tim shakes his head. “I’ll just be waiting for you when you get back.”

The thought of someone actually _waiting_ for _him_ makes Michael instantly lightheaded, and it takes him a moment to collect himself.

* * *

It’s just after dinner when the people who have visitors waiting are led downstairs to the cafeteria again, following single file behind a staff member who holds the keys to all of the locked doors. 

Michael sees Shaun almost immediately after they’re shown through the large double doors of the dining area, and he sits across from his brother, feeling small and drawn into himself. 

“Hi Michael,” Shaun says, with a tone that’s all but unreadable. _He’s glad to see me,_ Michael thinks, _but he’s walking on eggshells._ Business as usual. 

Staring down at the table, he returns the greeting. “Hey, Shaun. How have you been doing?” He simultaneously hates this small-talk and grasps onto it as though it’s a life-raft, because he’s not ready, not sure he’ll ever _be_ ready for the day they broach the topic of why he’s locked up here in the first place. 

“I’m okay,” his brother answers, and there’s just a hint of a smile that Michael can only hope isn’t forced. “It’s winter break already, and I think I did okay in all my classes. I _hope_ I did okay.”

Michael rocks back and forth in his chair, unable to keep himself still. “I’m sure you did great; you’ve always been really smart, Shaun.” There’s more he wants to say at the tip of his tongue but he swallows it all down, struggling to keep the impulsive, cutting words that he knows he’ll regret from escaping. 

“What about you?” Shaun questions slowly, as though he’s re-thinking every single word before voicing them. “How are things here?” 

“Just fine,” Michael replies immediately, kind of shocked at how quickly the answer comes out. “The doctor says I’m doing good, and I haven’t um…” It’s hard to know how to put it, how to tiptoe around the potentially harmful symptoms of his condition, the symptoms that caused Shaun physical harm when they were little kids. “…I haven’t blacked out at all,” is the phrasing he settles on, but it sounds lame even to himself. Too cowardly to allow the conversation to drift in that direction, though, he adds, “I made a friend.”

Shaun, showing yet again how seemingly endless his supply of patience is (which is especially impressive for a boy his age), only smiles wider. “I’m glad.” 

Michael launches into an incredibly enthusiastic monologue about Tim, partly because he wants to keep a neutral conversation going, but also largely because he _is_ genuinely excited to be friends with someone he believes to be so amazing. Shaun, to his credit, seems honestly happy for his brother’s newfound connection, and the visit goes pretty smoothly from thereon out. 

When staff calls for all visitors to gather by the door, they say their goodbyes, and Shaun looks at Michael earnestly. “Do you think… You’ll be able to come home soon?” 

Michael searches his brother’s face, desperate to find some subtle trace of fear because his mind is some kind of sadist that wants the emotional part of him to suffer. He can’t tell by his face what Shaun is thinking, which is both a blessing and a curse. 

“I don’t know,” he says as he gets to his feet, pushing his chair in close to the table. “I’m trying my best, Shaun.” It’s the truth, and it stings to see that Shaun has no apparent reaction to it, visible or otherwise. 

“Take care of yourself, Michael; I’ll see you real soon.” 

He’s the first one back to the unit, ironically desperate now to be enclosed by familiarity. Throwing himself on his bed, Michael wallows in self-pity, even though he knows he does not deserve any sympathy from anyone, himself included. _Shaun_ deserves empathy, deserves the kind words, not him; he’s known this for years, and yet that’s never made all of it hurt any less. 

Michael doesn’t notice Tim standing hesitantly near the doorway until his friend’s voice cuts through the silence. “I can leave you be,” he murmurs cautiously, and after a pause adds, “but if you want to talk about whatever it is—“ 

He doesn’t, in fact, want to talk about it in the least, but he appreciates the company more than Tim might ever know.

* * *

It’s not until after Michael’s birthday has passed that anything deviates from the norm, that anything goes noticeably wrong. 

It’s a rainy day, late in the afternoon, and there’s a stretch of free time between groups as the staff is waiting for a guest speaker to arrive from outside of the hospital. The two of them are sitting comfortably side-by-side on Tim’s bed, alone in his room as his roommate had been discharged a couple of days prior, without yet any new arrivals to take his place. 

They’re telling stories from their pasts, lighthearted ones, and Michael isn’t even letting the typical stab to his heart when thinking about how his family used to be when everything was normal affect him too badly. He feels oddly at peace, with the steady hammering of raindrops against the outside of the building providing a tranquil backdrop for their conversation. 

Things are okay, but then, suddenly they aren’t. 

He’s filled with dread in an instant like some sort of internal switch of his has been ignited, and he’s suddenly without a doubt completely certain that the tall man is here. 

His eyes are fixed on the off-white tiling of the floor below him, and even though he’s silently yelling at himself to just turn his gaze upward because he’ll _see_ that everything is fine and there’s nothing there, he physically cannot force himself to look up.

Beside him, Tim is silent and Michael wonders if he can feel it too; he longs to ask, but deep-seeded fear hinders him from doing so, as it’s safer to remain in this Schrödinger’s box his mind has constructed, wherein the entity is both present and absent as long as he does not turn his eyes toward where it should be. He’s equal parts petrified of the otherworldly power that the thing itself undoubtedly possesses and the realization that maybe he _isn’t_ getting better, after all. 

Without even realizing he’s doing it, he lifts his head from its downward position and turns to the side, hiding his face by burying it in the sleeve covering Tim’s arm. He isn’t thinking about how potentially shameful said action might be, the only deafening thoughts in his head are that he’s so afraid, he feels so small, and he so badly craves protection from his own personal demon. 

After a moment, Tim awkwardly drapes an arm around Michael’s shoulders, causing his breath to catch for just a second before he allows himself to lean into the physical comfort, his eyes still squeezed shut. It takes what feels like an eternity for him to find his voice, but when he does he whispers, “is it here?” The dread encompassing his entire being is too great now; he can’t simply will himself to believe that it’s his imagination. 

“It’s here,” Tim replies, voice wavering but with an underlying firmness that suggests an emotional maturity far beyond his years. After a tense few seconds, he says more steadily, “I’ll tell you when it’s gone, okay?” 

It’s unfair; Michael _knows_ it’s unfair, and he chokes on his words trying to offer a weak sort of protest. “N-no, it’s… I… I mean, you don’t have—“ Tim squeezes him more tightly, wordlessly cutting him off, and Michael allows himself to crumple, silently berating himself for being so weak as he clings onto Tim’s arm, still shielding his eyes. 

He has no idea how long he sits like that; it probably adds up to no longer than ten minutes, but it’s as if time ceases to exist for this brief duration, which isn’t that far-fetched considering the tall man always seemed to have the ability to bend time and space themselves. 

Finally, just as he’s starting to lose grip on reality, on himself, Tim gently brushes his back with the hand that’s attached to the arm Michael doesn’t currently have his face buried into. “It’s okay. It’s… It’s gone, Michael; you’re okay.” 

As he draws himself away from the comfort of Tim’s flannel shirt, Michael returns to his own body, his rapid pulse gradually slowing. His eyes adjust and he looks around, coming to the placating realization that they’re the only two sentient beings in the room. He concentrates on remembering how to talk, but he struggles a bit before choking out, “I… Thank you, I-I’m sorry.” 

“Sorry for what?” Tim leans back on the bed, catching himself with both hands so he remains halfway upright. 

There’s a lot that Michael is sorry for, honestly, but all he can manage to vocalize is, “for not helping. For being weak, I guess, I don’t know.” 

Although he looks more than a little shaken up, Tim somehow manages to brush him off, offering a slightly-forced smile. “Don’t apologize; you aren’t weak. It’s gone now, right, and we’re fine. They’re always talking about backsliding in therapy and stuff, we just uh… backslid. No need to worry.” 

He sounds like he’s trying to convince himself just as much as he’s trying to convince Michael, but even so, the sentiment is reassuring. Both of them backsliding _at the same time_ seems bizarre to say the least, but it’s not outside the realm of possibility, right? “Thank you,” he says again, because he really doesn’t think he can say it enough. 

Sheepishly brushing him off again with the wave of a hand, Tim returns to his previous upright position, embracing Michael again, and how is it that he could feel so completely in peril just minutes ago, and now seem so perfectly safe? 

The silence is comfortable now, completely free of its previous charged foreboding, and Michael honestly wouldn’t have chosen to break it if it weren’t for the fact that a sudden surge of bravery has overtaken him, and he knows that if he doesn’t say these things now then he might not ever have the strength to say them at all. “Um, I have to tell you something.” 

“I’m listening,” Tim says off-handedly, and for someone who had just stared the tall man straight in the lack-of-eyes, he sounds strangely content; Michael feels a stab of guilt for laying something _else_ that’s so heavy on him, but selfishly he knows he has to. 

He takes a deep breath; it’s now or never. “Um. I don’t think it’s happened since you’ve been here but, b-before, sometimes I would… Black out, and… Lose time. You told me before, that night we first talked about it, that you lose your memories about that thing… And so I guess you can understand losing time, but for me it’s… It’s different. I don’t know what I do when I’m blacked out, but they’re bad things; I hurt people. I hurt my brother real bad which is why I’m here in the first place as I told you before… I don’t remember it; if anything, I remember that awful _thing_ hurting Shaun, but they all said it’s me… And then even in the hospital, I’d just… lose myself and wake up restrained, with the staff members telling me I’d had violent fits or something… I hurt other kids. Even if I don’t remember it, I hurt them and it’s my fault.” His voice is shaking pretty severely now, and it takes all the resolve he has to go on. “The medicine makes it stop… At least, that’s what the doctors say, and the medicine makes me stop seeing the tall faceless guy too. But if… I’m seeing him again, then it’s… Maybe it’s possible I could have a violent episode again. I was too scared to talk about it, and it’s hard, but it’s not fair for you to always hang out around me without knowing that. I obviously don’t… I don’t _want_ to hurt you, but I don’t really know how to control it when it happens, so I guess… I guess what I’m saying is if you want to stop being around me, I’ll understand and it’s okay.” 

When it’s all out, he finds himself gasping for air, doing his best to swallow the anxiety attack that he can feel forming at the back of his throat. The (probably, in reality, very brief) silence afterward feels both suffocating and endless, and he braces himself for what’s to come. Shaun may have stayed with him, but Shaun is family and probably feels some kind of obligation to not abandon him. Tim quite literally owes him nothing, and could (probably _should_ ) just walk away from the situation guilt-free.

Instead, after an agonizing few moments, he squeezes the arm that’s holding onto Michael tight, pulling to lessen the already-small gap between them and kind of squishing him close. “Hey, you’re like a hundred twenty pounds soaking wet, what’s the worst you could do.” More seriously, he continues, “no, really, I’ve probably been through worse, and having an actual, caring person beside me that can relate to my struggles is worth a couple of violent episodes that you can’t control. So yeah, unless _you_ want to leave, you’re not going anywhere.”

Almost glowing, Michael mumbles, “I don’t want to go anywhere.” And then, “you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me in this place.” 

Laughing just barely audibly, Tim absently rests his chin on Michael’s shoulder. “That’s real goddamn sappy, kid.” Then, almost as an afterthought he affirms, “but yeah, right back at you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly, watching MLA0, I really _really_ wanted to headcanon Michael as having BPD because so many of his behaviors made sense to me, but I'm not gonna erase a canonically Bipolar character, so yes-- 
> 
> I need more MLA0 fanfic in general, there's next to none. :(


End file.
